


‘CAUSE EVERY TIME WE TOUCH I GET THIS FEELING

by hiuythn



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Aliens Made Them Do It, Anal Fingering, Anticipation, Barebacking, Clothed Sex, Domestic, Grinding, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, The sex comes later, Touch-Starved, and then they get pent up about it, or well. NOT do it in this case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:14:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26041756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiuythn/pseuds/hiuythn
Summary: “It is ablessing,”the high priest warbles. God, he’s so old that Lance is afraid he’ll just expire on the spot. “From our God of Celibacy, to aid you in your fight to keep your bodies free of worldly taint.”“Okay,” says Lance. “Only we didn’t ask for it. We asked for your planet’s support in a war.”Beside him, Keith is staring at his bare hand, expression stormy.Earlier, he had placed it on Lance’s exposed wrist and something like an electric shock had ripped through them at the touch.“You should’ve told us that participating in your religious ceremony would do this to us,” he says now, a growl under his words.The high priest falters in his tracks, confused by their lack of gratitude.Yeah, fuck you, man. Don’t give people spiritual STDs without their consent.
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 104
Kudos: 1247





	‘CAUSE EVERY TIME WE TOUCH I GET THIS FEELING

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nomorefarewellkisses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nomorefarewellkisses/gifts).



> me, a virgin: what if I wrote smut would that be wild or what haha
> 
> my impulse control: oooh say less

Lance has seen some _shit_ over the two years or so dealing with aliens.

Aliens, as he’s come to realize, will never act like you expect them to. In fact, the more expectations you have for them, the more likely they’ll be to blow that completely out of the water.

Their customs, their language. Their appearance and their quirks and their beliefs—none of these can be anticipated.

Lance has met people who stare in awe at the technological marvel of Voltron only to turn around and claim that their mud battlements are the height of innovation. He’s shaken hands with aliens who won’t hesitate to drink from the same cup as you but will refuse to step onto dirt without wearing seven-inch platforms and covered head to toe in thick furs.

Some races will be just as likely to gut you as they are to praise you, depending on the way you walk, or the way you lower your eyes, or how you brush the pollen off a flower in their sacred gardens. Some races will only deign to speak to you when you’ve finished washing their thirteen thousand goats; others don’t speak at all and use _Pictionary_ as their primary source of communication.

On one memorable occasion, Lance had to subject himself to being groomed by a school of fish before the monarch of that planet would sign onto their Coalition. He almost drowned.

He has done _a lot_ for the sake of the universe. At this point it almost feels like Allura is pimping them out.

(He tried to tell her that once, but then he had to explain the concept of pimping and then Coran had interrupted midway and threatened to jail him for dirtying the ears of royalty. It was pretty funny.)

So he’s seen a lot. Dealt with more.

It was his mistake, though, to think he’s experienced it all. Because just as he starts to get comfortable, the universe pops out and says, “You think _you’ve_ seen weird? Bet.”

And that’s how Lance and Keith end up cursed.

* * *

“It is a _blessing,”_ the high priest warbles. God, he’s so old that Lance is afraid he’ll just expire on the spot. “From our God of Celibacy, to aid you in your fight to keep your bodies free of worldly taint.”

“Okay,” says Lance. “Only we didn’t ask for it. We asked for your planet’s support in a war.”

Beside him, Keith is staring at his bare hand, expression stormy.

Earlier, he had placed it on Lance’s exposed wrist and something like an electric shock had ripped through them at the touch.

“You should’ve told us that participating in your religious ceremony would do this to us,” he says now, a growl under his words.

The high priest falters in his tracks, confused by their lack of gratitude.

Yeah, fuck you, man. Don’t give people spiritual STDs without their consent.

Keith turns on his heel, marching out of the temple and towards the grand courtyard where their lions sit. Lance follows with a sigh, one ear tuned to the weak protests of the priest as he scrambles after them.

“Where are you going?” he asks. “We haven’t yet signed the alliance!”

“Back to the castle for a med eval, then decontamination and quarantine,” Lance says blandly. “You know, standard procedure after contracting alien diseases.”

“It is a _blessing!”_

Sure, but Lance has also learned over these years that sometimes, what other cultures call ‘magic’ and ‘divine grace’ is really just code for ‘parasite’ or ‘virus.’

So although Voltron was interested in having this planet join, they’re going to have to postpone the signing. And if it turns out that he and Keith have seriously contracted something, Allura will have to come back here with Coran to hash the rest of the alliance out.

Which would be a relief, honestly. He’s done dealing with this priest’s stuck-up ass. If he has to listen to the old man profess his boner for their Cockblock God one more time…

Their little procession breaks through the decorative hedges around the temple. In the courtyard, some kids have plucked up the courage to hover around Red and Black’s paws. Lance smiles, endeared, and waves to them. They wave back but run off, glancing over their shoulders at him and Keith.

At the foot of Black’s imposing figure, Keith turns and asks, “How long is this ‘blessing’ going to last?”

“I—well,” the man blubbers. “It varies. Some couples have carried the blessing for mere minutes, others for weeks.”

 _“Weeks? Couples?”_ Keith repeats dangerously. The priest cowers.

Lance lays a hand on his shoulder instinctively. He remembers the ‘blessing’ a beat later, and grimaces, knowing that if it had been bare skin he touched, they’d be twitching with the shock.

This is going to _suck_.

“You do know that we’re not romantically involved, yeah?” Judging by the way the priest pales, evidently not. “Right. I’m assuming there’s no way to expedite the process or remove it altogether?”

The priest shakes his head. “Not that I know of. I—the greatest apologies unto you. We had thought—this was our gift, for the alliance. In our culture, those that bargain treaties are typically partnered and rule together. They expect the blessing.”

Lance shares a look with Keith. He wonders if they should find it concerning how many other races have assumed that they were involved, too.

Keith rolls his eyes; Lance cracks a tired grin. Alright, so it’s mostly just funny, now.

(And maybe Lance is a little pleased about it, but that’s not important.)

Keith crosses his arms, staring down at the priest with a hard glint in his eye. Lance eases back a step to let his leader put the fear of Voltron into yet another ignorant alien.

“Next time,” rumbles Keith, “just _ask_. Be glad it was us you subjected your customs to, and not a race like the Baelchfe, who would’ve skinned you for your imposition. Or the Wawno-sme, who would’ve eaten you.”

Okay, so Keith has learned to talk fancy and also gotten even better at threatening people over time, but whatever. It’s kind of hot. Like, objectively. Also, he really is doing these guys a favour, warning them, because those aliens he mentioned absolutely would’ve done that.

And it’s important to have their allies realize this, because if they’re all going to be joining together to fight a high-stakes war, they need to know how not to step on each other’s toes.

The priest nods rapidly, eyes wide. “Yes—yes, of course. It won’t—we will revisit protocol for visitors. This won’t happen again.”

Keith nods. “See that it doesn’t.”

And with that, they depart.

* * *

After their checkup is done and the bloodwork processed, they each spend forty-eight hours in quarantine.

Lance sleeps through most of it.

What? Being a paladin is hard work.

When they emerge from isolation, Allura calls them up to the lounge room where the team is waiting, so he guesses that whatever the priest hit them with isn’t infectious.

“Frankly, you could’ve skipped the quarantine; we’ve had a case of this before—our first contact with the Hinsla, back when Alfor was a prince. It was rather benign,” Coran says. “I believe it was his father’s two advisors that were bestowed with the, er, blessing.”

“You couldn’t have warned us?” Keith asks dryly.

Coran shrugs. “It’s been ten thousand years; it slipped my mind. The incident was largely inconsequential, since the advisors were hardly close enough for it to have an adverse effect on them.”

Keith grumbles, head falling back against the couch.

“But that means we do know for certain that the ‘divine blessing’ is actually a result of ingesting the Gnij blossom. I believe it was distilled into the drink that was offered to you during the ceremony. It’s relatively harmless.”

Harmless, sure. But that doesn’t make the tiny electric shocks they get any less annoying.

Lance props his chin in his palm. “You don’t happen to have a cure for the flower, do you?”

Coran shakes his head.

“You and Keith aren’t the type to hug or cuddle each other anyway,” Pidge points out.

“That doesn’t mean we don’t come into contact now and then, and I don’t know about you, but I’d like to be able to pass Keith the salt without shocking myself,” Lance says wryly, just as Keith mutters, “Says who?”

They lock eyes.

“I know you said that just to be contrary, but that was kind of touching,” says Lance.

“Hah, touching.” Shiro grins.

“Pun not intended.”

Keith crosses his arms and looks away, refusing to acknowledge his reddening ears. “I just don’t like being told what to do by some alien curse.”

The team snorts in unison.

“Shocker,” says Hunk. “You? Having control issues? Would’ve never guessed.”

Keith throws a pillow at him.

Allura catches it, placing it gently beside her. “Will you two be able to hold out until it goes away?”

Lance scratches his head. “I don’t see it becoming a problem. Our clothes aren’t particularly revealing and it’s not like I _need_ Keith’s sloppy high fives.”

“Oh, I see how it is. See if I ever congratulate you on a victory ever again,” Keith snarks.

By habit, Lance reaches out to scrub a hand in his mullet and only remembers why he shouldn’t when Keith jerks back, eyes wide.

Lance looks at him. Looks at his hand. He scoots away.

“We’ll be fine,” he says. “We just got to make sure we don’t touch skin to skin. I mean, how hard can that be?”

* * *

The next morning, Lance wakes up sweating buckets.

They all come trooping onto the bridge, sluggish with heat and seeking answers, dressed in tanks and shorts.

Allura just looks at them and says, “Climate controls are down.”

Keith turns to Lance and says, “This is your fault.”

* * *

Hunk estimates that it’ll take two days to fix it.

“Normally, I could get it done in an hour or two, but we’re missing essential parts. We’ll need to head to the nearest space mall.”

Allura purses her lips, a wrinkle in her brows. “What of the energy build-up from our systems? If it’s already this hot, are our engines at risk of overheating?”

Coran shakes his head. “The castle’s engine rooms were built to passively disperse heat in such a situation. The heat is mostly centered in our quarters and our usual haunts. If this persists past a month, perhaps we’d be in danger then.”

She nods. “Alright then. Plot a course to a space mall. Everyone else, do what you can to make yourselves comfortable.”

Which means they’ll probably just wear the bare minimum of clothing and lie prone on cold metal surfaces until their skin adheres to it. At least there’s the pool, although Lance dreads to see the kind of swimwear Coran owns.

“We’ll be fine,” Lance agrees, and the sentence is beginning to feel like a lie. “We’ve faced worse. This is nothing, right?”

He nudges Keith’s shoulder with his and pain zips through his arm like a firecracker. They jolt away from each other, rubbing the place where they touched.

“Sure. This is _nothing_ ,” Keith says through gritted teeth.

Lance laughs weakly.

* * *

Right, so, Pidge was definitely wrong.

He and Keith _do_ touch often.

At breakfast, they sit next to each other.

What’s the problem with that? Well, Keith shocks him eight times, knocking their elbows and knees together, and Lance is left to wonder how often this happens and why he didn’t notice until now. Some of those instances weren’t even by accident; Keith does it to get his _attention_. Like, _Hey Lance, did you get that memo I sent you yesterday,_ or _Mom asked me to pass something on to you on our last mission,_ or _Don’t look now but Shiro has a milk mustache._

And that’s not even getting into the moments where they’re bantering and exchanging playful jabs. _Playful._ What the fuck?

“Is it just me,” Pidge interjects, “or is anyone else a little shocked by how much touching these two have gotten used to?”

“Mood,” says Hunk. “It’s a little weird.”

“Why is that weird?” Keith asks, poking idly at his food. “We’re friends.”

Silence falls. He looks up to see their startled faces, even—

“Why are _you_ surprised?!” he sputters at Lance.

“I—uh,” says Lance. “It’s just—different, hearing you say it out loud.”

Different? More like gratifying. Miraculous. Lance might obsess over this for a week, what about it?

At the end of breakfast, he forgets himself and tries to flick an eyelash off Keith’s cheek. Then Keith offers to take his dish and their hands brush and needless to say, the dish ends up in pieces on the floor.

“Seriously,” says Pidge. “So. Much. Touching.”

Lance gives up and drops his head onto the table.

* * *

After breakfast is the usual: Coran herds them to their stations on the bridge to file paperwork, write up reports, and other boring clerical duties that come with fighting a war.

Allura makes some video calls to various leaders. Pidge gives their individual battle drones an update on their code. Lance makes an additional note on Keith’s report for their mission on Hinsla (MAKE SURE THEY KNOW YOU’RE NOT MARRIED TO YOUR SECOND IN COMMAND) before logging it into Coalition databases.

All in all, a normal day in space, with the addition of them sweating their asses off.

“This heat is getting ridiculous,” Allura sighs, pulling her hair away from her neck and fanning herself.

She’s stripped down to lounge pants and a loose t-shirt, but a flush still rides high on her face. Lance frowns. She’s been standing the whole time.

He powers off his workstation—he’s finished for the day, anyway—and approaches the dais. “Got any hair ties on you?”

She raises her arm, where three white ties ring her wrist. “Yes?”

He hops up and stands at her back, hands hovering over her hair. “May I?”

“Please,” she says in obvious relief.

It takes little work to section her hair in two and twist them up into messy space buns. He wraps thin braids at the base of each for some added flourish, and when Coran pulls up a mirror for Allura, she practically beams.

“Thank you, Lance, they’re lovely.” She turns her head this way and that, fingers fluttering over her hair. “And I’m no longer in danger of heatstroke!”

He grins. “My pleasure. You’ve been working pretty hard, after all. Anyway, I’m done so—”

Automatically, he looks over at Keith, because they usually go for a spar after this, but Keith is still working away and scowling something fierce. And he’s typing—with one hand.

The other is holding his hair away from his nape.

Allura follows his gaze and laughs. She gives him her remaining hair tie. “Tell him to keep it.”

Lance hops down and strides over, already envisioning styles he could try. He wonders why he never offered to do something about that mullet earlier. If not for Keith, then for his own annoyance with it. He keeps finding black hair clinging to his clothes and littering the showers. Keith _sheds_.

“Looking a little warm there, buddy.” He holds up the hair tie. “Need me to do something about it?”

Keith’s eyebrows rise. “You’re going to do my hair?”

Lance jerks a thumb over his shoulder at Allura. “She seems to like it well enough.”

Keith considers it, gaze fixed on Lance’s fingers twisting the tie between them. “Go wild,” he says, and it must be Lance’s imagination that his voice has gone a shade deeper.

But just as Lance reaches for those inky black strands, Allura’s voice cuts across the room: “Wait, you can’t—”

In the millisecond before the pain sets in, as his fingers are just barely brushing the curve of Keith’s neck, there’s a growing warmth in Lance’s gut. An anticipation.

In that moment, he realizes that he wants to put his hands on Keith. Wants his palms flat against those shoulders, wants his nails against Keith’s scalp. Wants to hear him sigh.

And when Keith jerks away from him with a hiss, Lance almost _yanks him back_ , so potent is his want. As it is, he’s barely able to restrain himself to a full-body twitch, careening dangerously close to Keith’s exposed shoulder.

“—do that,” Allura finishes. “Are you two okay?”

“M’ fine,” Keith grunts. He rubs at his neck, an odd frown on his face. His gaze slips to Lance’s hand, hovering awkwardly between them.

Lance, on his part, is frozen still. His fingers buzz like they’ve touched a live wire. He clenches them into a fist, unsettled by own emotions.

Sure, he likes touch from his friends just as much as the next person, and he _might_ have a baby crush on Keith, but he’s never had it _hit_ him like that before. Not that fiercely.

“Hey.” Keith ducks his head, catches his eyes. “You good?”

He then— _reaches out_.

As in to offer— _comfort?_ It’s a tiny, aborted motion, but Lance sees it, and Keith _knows_ he did it, and they’re left staring at each other like—like—

Keith turns away jerkily and calls over to Coran, “Was there any other side effects from the flower that we should know? Like a compulsion aspect?”

Coran frowns. “No? The Hinsla were thorough in their studies of it. There should only be the shock effect. Maybe some skin benefits, though that’s an unsubstantiated claim.”

Meaning, Lance can’t chalk this up to someone else’s fault. Right, okay, _he_ knew that—but why is _Keith_ asking about that?

Why is Keith chewing on his lips, refusing to look back at Lance? Why is the air between them charged like a thunderstorm?

“I think,” Lance says, “that we probably shouldn’t spar today.”

Predictably, it brings a pout to Keith’s face, but he agrees. Lance doesn’t know if he should be relieved or disappointed.

* * *

Routine disrupted, Lance wanders down to one of the chilly, unused rooms. He thinks it used to be one of Queen Melenor’s sitting rooms. He lies prone on the plush carpet and tries not to feel too bad about dirtying it with his sweat.

Fortunately, soon his body cools, heartbeat slowing, and he stops feeling like he needs to crawl out of his skin. _Un_ fortunately, his mind is still running like a hamster on a wheel. If it runs any faster, it’s going to fall off the wheel and crash and burn and leave him brain dead.

He keeps turning the scene on the bridge over and over in his head. The whole _morning_ , honestly. How he and Keith—how their bodies stuttered around each other. On a collision course, forgetting to brake, so used to touching.

The ferocity of his emotions on the bridge were startling, but overall, Lance isn’t too shocked by his own actions. Generally, he’s always been a touchy guy. And after his partnership with Keith smoothed out, he knows he’s been reaching out more.

What’s blindsiding him, is that Keith has apparently been—reciprocating?

Like with the nudging at breakfast. And—and on the bridge, how he might have, maybe, possibly alluded that he feels compelled to touch Lance?

That he might be _missing_ it, now that they can’t.

Shit. The thought of it is too much. He rolls on his side with a groan, hands over his burning face.

“What the hell,” he says. “What am I supposed to do with that information?”

Alfor’s portrait, hanging on the wall beside him, doesn’t provide much of an answer. He just smiles down at Lance bemusedly. Lance sighs.

He really hopes that this curse wears off soon. Or that Hunk fixes the climate controls.

Because if this confusion continues, Lance will be forced to strap himself to the outside of the castleship until everything goes back to normal.

* * *

At lunch, Lance takes the seat furthest from Keith.

Keith stares at him the whole time. Somehow, this is worse than what happened at breakfast.

* * *

Keith invites him to the pool after. Lance—you guessed it—says yes.

This whole thing is really exposing how much of a pushover he is for Keith.

It’s just—the way Keith tilts his head, the soft expectancy in his expression, his voice, his mouth shaping the words—it’s killing Lance, it really is.

“You okay, Lance? Looking a little warm there,” Keith says.

He sinks deeper in the water until it licks at his lips. “M’ fine. S’ just—the heat, you know.”

Keith grunts in agreement, drifting closer. He grabs the ledge beside Lance and leans against it, slicking back his hair with a hand. Water droplets travel down his arm, his neck, between his pecs.

Lance wonders if the curse is only skin deep. If he leans over and follows that path up Keith’s chest with his tongue instead of his finger, would it still hurt? Would Keith jerk against him? Would he gasp? In pain or in pleasure?

“S’ nice,” Keith sighs.

Lance startles. “What?”

“The water? Could be colder, but it beats sitting in front of the open refrigeration units.” Keith squints at him. “Are you sure you’re okay? You’re really red.”

Their legs threaten to brush as the automated waves nudge them closer. Lance holds tight to the ledge.

He feels it like a hand around his sternum; this desire. Keith is dragging him in, magnetizing the atoms between them, reaching right into his body and urging him to open up.

His nails scrape against the pool. “Let’s race. Maybe that’ll cool me down.”

A smirk stretches across Keith’s face. “But doesn’t losing usually fire you up more?”

And just like that, Lance’s internal struggle is thrown out for pure indignation. “Oh _okay_ , so that’s how you want to play, huh?”

Keith readies himself to push off. “On a count of three?”

“Sure,” says Lance, and when Keith gets to two, he slaps a hand into the water, sending a wave directly into Keith’s mouth.

With a gleeful laugh, he throws himself into a front crawl as Keith splutters and yells his name. _Hah._

Keith may have had two years to grow in that quantum abyss shit, getting bulkier and stronger, but that means nothing in the water. Lance isn’t small himself, but he’s all speed and precision and he slices through the water like a blade. He leaves Keith in the _dust._ Splashing him was just for fun.

Lance gets to the other side three full seconds before him, grinning wildly as he turns to watch Keith approach. He’s so caught up in this chance to crow about his victory that he doesn’t realize the danger he’s in until Keith slaps a hand to the tile and rounds on him with burning violet eyes.

 _“You,”_ he rasps. If one could stalk forward in water, Keith would be doing it.

“Me,” Lance agrees cheekily, swimming out of Keith’s reach. “Who’s the sore loser now?”

Keith lunges for him, teeth bared. Lance throws himself back, breathless with laughter. His heart pounds, half-adrenaline, half-arousal. Fuck, if doesn’t get him going; poking and prodding at Keith until he snaps. The game was fun when Keith was nothing but a rival, but it’s even _better_ when Keith plays it with him.

‘Cause see, if Lance is in it to be annoying, Keith’s in it for the excuse to put him in a headlock. To rough him up and say it was justified.

“Get back here,” Keith growls. Lance just slaps another wave at him. “Right, okay, that’s it.”

This time, he launches himself with a foot against the pool, and Lance knows he’s caught. Knows that Keith is going to grab him in the next second and push him underwater and they’ll tumble around uselessly, fighting in the loosest sense of the word. And when they break the surface, Keith will just try to dunk him again and Lance will springboard off his chest to get away and Keith will grab his ankle and—

Keith’s arms wrap around him and electricity _claws_ down his spine.

“Fuck!”

Keith is already drawing back, but Lance’s hands instinctively come up to his biceps to push him away and the moment he makes contact, the loop of pain doubles. It sends them both into full-body twitches. Their bodies are still too close; they graze against each other—Keith’s fumbling hands to Lance’s sides, Lance’s flailing kicks against Keith’s legs. Every touch rip groans and hisses from them and Lance is floundering; he’s seizing up, he can’t tread water, he’s sinking—

Keith grabs his arm, cursing, and pulls them both to the side of the pool.

Lance gasps. “K-Keith—”

“Hold on, hold on—here, grab it—”

His hand slaps against tile and Keith lets him go. He drags himself to safety, blinking water from his eyes, spitting it from his mouth. The edge of the pool is grounding. He clings to it, chest heaving. He’s dizzy, muscles spasming. His waist and stomach especially; where Keith had held him, had pressed right up against his body. God, this fucking _curse._

He lifts his head.

A foot away, Keith has his head in his arms, hair lying limp against the tile. Aftershocks ripple through his shoulders, his forearms, muscles bunching and flexing. He turns and single eye peeks out at Lance. His brows are scrunched tight.

“You okay?” Lance asks.

Keith blows out a breath. “Didn’t think this would be as annoying as it is.”

“You’re telling me. We should really get in the habit of opting out of weird alien traditions.”

Keith bites back a smile. “Yeah, but remember that time you had to cut down a tree naked? That was fun.”

That deserves a splash to the face, don’t try to tell Lance it doesn’t.

Keith splashes him back, choking on water and laughter. “Lance, stop—Lance!”

“You said you’d never bring that up again!”

“Sorry, sorry, I—will you pause for a—Lance!”

Keith holds his hands up against the onslaught. His lashes darkened by water, lips red and wet—he’s so pretty that Lance wants to kill him. He splashes him again.

He’s well aware that he’s acting like a teenage girl on a beach date with her crush, covering up his flustered reaction by scowling and attacking relentlessly but what else is he supposed to do? Keith remembers when he was _butt naked_.

Fed up, Keith pushes through the water and grabs Lance’s wrists. Immediately, the pain sets in. A whine catches in Lance’s throat and he’s about to ask Keith what the hell he’s doing when Keith slides into his space and grits out, “Stop. Splashing me. Okay?”

He squeezes and— _fuck_. Lance nods mutely. Keith lets go.

Lance backs up, blinking hard. He rubs his wrists. Jeez, so Keith isn’t above playing like that, huh?

Why does he find that hot? God, he’s so fucked.

This is really cementing it for him; he needs to keep away from Keith for the duration of this clusterfuck. If only to stop himself from suffering a stroke, from either the heat or from Keith being— _Keith._

As if fate herself heard him, Keith takes that moment to slick his hair back. Lance absolutely _despises_ how his bicep moves—it’s gross, it’s the worst. Lance is—he’s retreating. He’s not a weak man, but a guy can only deal with so much, you know?

“I think I’m going to head out,” he says. “Take a nap in a cold closet somewhere.”

“Oh.” For a heartbeat, Keith looks visibly disappointed. Lance viciously squashes the satisfaction that dares to crop up. “Alright, I’ll catch you later.”

“For sure.”

Lance heaves himself out of the pool, water sloughing off him like a second skin, shorts clinging to his legs. The heat hits him like an elephant and he almost changes his mind, almost jumps back in. But another second here with Keith would be a cruel and unusual torture, so he gets to his feet and picks up his towel.

“Don’t stay in there too long; you’ll prune,” he says.

He glances over his shoulder to wave goodbye and—catches Keith’s gaze snapping up.

Was he—was he staring at Lance’s _ass?_

“Right,” says Keith. He turns away, ears flushed.

Lance remains frozen another moment, mind hamster-wheeling again, until it becomes too much and he has to flee.

* * *

He skips dinner, citing fatigue and feeling overheated.

Trying to distract himself with his tablet or music or games is useless. Lying in the dark is useless. Taking a bubble bath, taking extra time pampering his skin—all of it, useless. He can’t text Pidge or Hunk because of his excuse, and he can’t blow off steam because, again, _his excuse_ —which he maybe should’ve thought through more.

He feels like he’s going insane. His mind won’t rest, skipping over the afternoon like a broken cassette.

Keith, looking at him. Looking away. Keith, touching him and chasing him and smiling at him.

He blows out a breath, glaring at his bedroom ceiling. He has no idea what to think about it all. Is this—is this their normal? Has he been so blind that it’s taking a _physical ailment_ to see how close he and Keith are?

Or is he projecting? Is he just confusing Keith’s control issues and touch-starvation for attraction?

God, if he makes a move and it turns out to be that, Lance would rather hand himself over to Zarkon.

He groans and smacks his pillow over his face a couple times. It doesn’t do much to alleviate the buzz under his skin, the relentless spiral of his thoughts. He sighs.

There’s really only one thing that calms him down when he gets like this.

Lance leans over to his bedside drawer and pulls out his lube.

“Lock the door,” he calls. His room chirps, the lights in the walls flashing once.

Maybe the situation will make more sense once he rubs one out and clears his head. And if not, he’ll be tired enough to actually sleep and not just lie here uselessly.

His boxers come off, kicked to the floor. He gets comfortable, plucking his tank up past his ribs, just under his chest. He trails his fingers up the same path to rub lightly over a nipple. His mind wanders, flicking through his fantasies. He flattens his hands over his chest, squeezes.

Unbidden comes the image of Keith hovering over him, the heat of _his_ palms branding onto Lance’s chest.

Lance freezes.

He lies there for a long moment, as if waiting for someone to bust down the door and expose his thoughts to the whole world. And then he feels silly, because it’s normal to think that shit about a crush.

It’s just. Somehow, he never has, before this moment.

There’s probably a legitimate reason for it. Wartime mindset, hyper-vigilance, et cetera et cetera. And usually, Lance just defaults to faceless men and women, focusing more on his body’s sensations than his imagination.

He tries to shrug it off, to go back to touching himself. But his mind can’t let go of image of Keith, now that it has that. The possibilities it draws up—Keith’s weight atop him; the warmth of his body brushing Lance’s thighs, his lap, as he moves how he wants, sits how he wants. The weight of his stare, as he considers Lance spread out beneath his hands.

Lance shivers.

Would he like the muscle that Lance has built up?

Would he drag his palms all over? Would he let his touch linger? Would he wrap his arms around Lance, make him arch his back so Keith could nose between his chest and up his neck? What would his voice sound like, when he tells Lance how good he looks? How nicely he fits in Keith’s arms?

Heat flares over Lance’s face. “Oh my god.”

It’s embarrassing how much he likes the idea of that. Of Keith pressing down on him. Of the look he might wear, dark and amazed and hungry. And the noises he might make, his grunts, his pants. The slick sounds of his mouth travelling down Lance’s abs. Lance mimics the trail with his own fingers, a feather-light pressure.

He’d have Lance squirming, definitely. That mouth of his—witty, sharp, always teasing Lance—he would know how to use it. He’d have Lance slapping on his shoulder to _hurry it up already, idiot!_

Keith would just roll his eyes, mutter _demanding, much?_ and then he’d would push Lance’s legs up and out. He’d spread them just so he could _look_ , and Lance would have to lie there and let him.

“Jesus,” he mutters. Was his imagination always this vivid? He’s already so hard from so little.

He lingers on the scene, imagining Keith kneeling between his legs, as he gives himself a couple perfunctory strokes. He pours lube onto his palms, but it’s Keith’s hands he thinks of when he bypasses his cock and circles a finger around his rim.

Would—would Keith eat him out? Lance goes impossibly hotter from the thought. Would it be his tongue or his finger down here? Would he tease? Would he let his breath wash over Lance’s hole, like a promise of things to come? He would, Lance decides, he absolutely would play Lance like that. And when Lance is about to kick him, he’d flatten his tongue to Lance’s hole and _drag_ up, get it wet and sloppy and it’d feel so good so hot oh _fuck—_

“Keith,” Lance whines to an empty room. His hips jerk, fingers sliding slick and messy all over.

He eases one in, feeling inordinately proud at how hot he is inside. God, it would make Keith gasp. He’d squeeze down and make Keith moan. Lance bites his lip. Pushes his finger in deeper.

He wants to make this last, to draw it out, so he avoids his prostate, diligently working himself open. Pets and strokes and scissors himself loose. Two, then three. He dribbles more lube onto himself, liking how it pools under him, into him. His wrist starts to ache, so he flips onto his stomach.

Legs spread and ass in the air, he pauses for a moment. _Wait,_ Keith would say. _Let me look at you._

Lance hides his face in his pillow, ears aflame. Stupid as it is, he makes himself wait. Reaches behind himself to spread his cheeks apart for someone who isn’t there. Lube drips down his thighs. He pretends it’s something else and a whimper forces itself out his throat.

When he stuffs himself full on four fingers, he’s a hair-trigger from coming. The pillow is damp with sweat and tears and drool. Lance’s eyes won’t focus. It just—it’s so _good._ He tilts his hips into it, feeling so filled and yet so open.

“Please,” he moans, as if Keith really is sitting there behind him. As if it’s his fingers teasing around his prostate. _I wanna come,_ Lance thinks desperately. _Please, I wanna come, wanna come, let me come._

 _Jesus,_ Keith would breathe, shaky and just as overwhelmed and then he’d finally, _finally_ press in, right there, right where it makes Lance sob and shake. _So sweet,_ Keith would say.

Lance wraps a hand around his cock, desperate now. The first stroke pulls a hoarse “fuck!” from his gut and he only gets louder from there. He thumbs the head, feels pre drip into the growing puddle beneath him. He shudders all over. Between his sloppy strokes and the insistent circles rubbed into his prostate, his eyes damn near roll back into his head. He’s on fire.

Belatedly, he realizes he’s making a lot of noise. Choked moans and muffled cries. The bulkhead isn’t thin, obviously, but—he’s so _loud_. Anyone could hear him if they stood still and quiet in front of his door.

Anyone could hear him, if they were coming back from dinner early, because they eat fast. Because they’re maybe a little worried about him, about their partner, about how flushed and odd he’s been behaving all day. And maybe they’re thinking about him as they walk by his door. Maybe they hear a strange noise and maybe they stop.

And suddenly then they’re hearing a lot more. They’re hearing their name—it’s _their_ name he calls when he shoves his fingers deeper, _harder,_ it’s _their name_ he stutters over as he imagines them touching him when they haven’t been able to all day and he sounds so _good_ and maybe they’re thinking that if they open this door they’d get to see him come they’d get to see him on his knees for them and maybe he’d let them do things to him to get him to say _“Keith”_ one more time and—

At that moment, there’s a thump right outside his bedroom.

It’s probably nothing. It’s probably the ship’s ambient noise. But the possibility flashes in his mind: Keith is standing right outside.

Something between panic and lust rips through Lance, and his back pulls taut, his fingers curl just right, and he comes, so, so sweetly.

It blindsides him. It rips a strangled, “Keith!” from his throat and his body seizes under the pure fucking _pleasure_ that drives up from his dick to his head. His vision blurs. He thinks he might be smiling because holy _fuck_ _that feels amazing._ He rides it out, fucks into his fist and grinds back on his fingers, and when he finally comes down after what feels like an eternity, he’s panting so hard it sounds like he’s crying.

He slumps onto the bed, shaking. Gingerly, he pulls his fingers out. He winces at the hollow feeling, shivers from the slick sounds and the filthy way his hole clenches down on nothing.

Fuck, that was the hardest he’s come in a while. And all from imagining Keith fingerfucking him. It should be embarrassing, but all he feels is inordinate satisfaction.

And exhaustion.

He clumsily cleans himself up with the tissues on the nightstand and throws the mess over the side of the bed. He falls asleep a second later, naked and shameless, right there on top of his duvet.

* * *

He wakes in the middle of the night, sweating and disoriented. The space behind him is empty.

He pulls his pillow to his chest and curls around it, feeling bereft.

* * *

“Feeling any better?” Keith asks the next morning.

Lance’s head snaps up. “Huh?”

“You said you felt under the weather yesterday.” A forkful of food disappears behind Keith’s lips. Lance blinks slow, hypnotized. “Did you even get any sleep last night?”

Lance flushes. Nope, no he didn’t.

In fact, his sleep had been rife with fantasies far beyond fingering. The moments when he dreamed of simply being held didn’t really put a damper on the lingering arousal either. If anything, it makes it harder to look at Keith, knowing he’d thought about cuddling just as much as the fucking.

“You’re all red. You must be coming down with something.” Keith raises a hand to Lance’s forehead. “Here, let me—”

 _He’s going to touch me,_ Lance thinks nonsensically, ecstatically. _He’s going to—_

He doesn’t. His hand halts an inch away.

The heat of his palm radiates over Lance’s face. Lance shudders. When he glances up, Keith’s eyes have gone dark. Hunger curls in Lance’s gut, sudden and shocking.

Keith pulls away with a cough.

“Almost forgot,” he says. “That—was close. Let me get a thermometer.”

Lance almost slams his head on the table in frustration. Keith’s right, of course he’s right. They shouldn’t touch. It’s not that big a deal, he doesn’t have to be so disappointed, jeez.

He shovels his food into his mouth. “Don’t bother, it’s fine. I’m fine. Finish your breakfast.”

“But—”

Because he’s still a little sour, Lance pinches Keith on the thigh, over his shorts. _“Eat.”_

Keith makes a face at him and rubs the sore spot. “Did you have to do that?”

“Yes.” Lance spoons some of his green bean mash thing onto Keith’s plate. “Also I need to go over some battle plans with you later.”

“If you don’t like the mash, why do you let Hunk give it to you every time?” Keith asks irritably. “What’s wrong with the plans?”

“I’ll tell you when we go over them,” Lance replies patiently. “And I get it because _you_ like the mash, god knows why.”

Keith grumbles, but obediently eats it because Lance is totally right; the one time Lance deigned not to get it, he’d been noticeably grumpy about the lost extra portion.

On the other side of the table, Pidge is giving them a disgusted look. Lance flips her off.

* * *

They kill some time fine-tuning the details of some of their infiltration and front-line assault plans, taking some fun out of leaving suspicious coded messages for Shiro to find and obsess over later.

Around noon, Coran calls them up to the bridge. The ship has arrived at the space mall. Allura assigns them various things to pick up, but their minds are occupied by one thought:

Air conditioning.

Lance is so ready for a blast of cold, filtered air right in his face.

More importantly, he can wear _pants_. And long sleeves. A _jacket_ , if he so wishes.

And if he wears all that, he can touch Keith. And Keith can touch him.

He’s beyond embarrassment now. He can’t find it in himself to pretend his thoughts aren’t mostly occupied by Keith anymore. He literally came to the idea of Keith fingering him; a little excitement over getting to sling his arm over Keith’s shoulder is tame in comparison.

“And when you’re done, let us know and we’ll meet by the fountain,” Allura concludes.

“If anyone makes us go home before I’m done cooling myself down, I will stab them with my bayard,” Pidge says.

Shiro shrugs. “Fair enough. Alright, everyone get dressed. I’ll be glad not to see any of you in your goddamn underwear for a few hours.”

“My T-rex boxers take offense at that,” Hunk huffs.

“Good.”

“Hey!”

* * *

The five minutes he suffers walking through the humid castle in jeans is well worth the _heavenly_ chill of the mall.

“God,” he sighs, swaying on the spot. “Yeah, that’s good.”

Keith bites back a grin. “Do you need a moment?”

“Oh, shut up.” Lance slugs him on the arm, where Keith’s sweater safely hides his skin. It’s a really nice sweater, too; a simple black knit that clings to his biceps and chest and falls just right at his waist…

He shakes himself. “You’re in charge of soaps, right?”

“Dish, detergent, and cleaning supplies,” Keith rattles off.

“Allura has me on new bedsheets and towels, so let’s go together. C’mon, I think the shops are this way.”

Keith follows his lead, hands in the pockets of his jeans. Who chose his outfit today? It doesn’t look like a total disaster. He’s still wearing his boots, unfortunately. Maybe Lance can tempt him into getting a pair of normal shoes today.

Lance opted for a flannel over a tee, and jeans, too. He got some cool looking sneakers on last month’s run. It’s strange how they human they make him feel. Vulnerable, but…good. Relaxed.

He’s really glad Coran let go of the ‘dressing up as Unilu traders’ thing, after they convinced him it was _more_ conspicuous that way.

They pick up new dish soap canisters, and only have to comm Coran once to ask about the models the kitchen uses. He tells them it doesn’t matter; Hunk will have to modify them for their 10,000-year-old outdated ship anyway.

“Do you remember if there was a certain detergent mod we wanted?” Lance asks. “Do they even sell the ones Alfor used to use?”

Keith voice drifts over from the next aisle. “Just get the cheapest one. We’re low on credits. What’s the difference between disinfectant wipes and disinfectant spray? Do we get both?”

“I think Coran preferred the spray. We use reusable towels, so we don’t need wipes—which reminds me, ours are nothing but thread now. Can you grab some for me?”

“Yeah, got it.”

Keith rounds the corner a moment later, and Lance adds the detergent and towels to the cart. “Is that everything here?”

“Did you remember the toilet cleaning mod?”

“Shit, one second.”

Lance pushes the cart towards the check-out where the bots are waiting with their automated arms and blank smiles. Their cart is steadily emptied and packed into hovercarriers. Keith jogs up a moment later with the mod and a bot plucks it neatly from his hands. They pay and move onto the next store, their purchases bobbing behind them.

“New sheets for everyone?” Keith asks.

“Mhm. Towels, too. I don’t know about you, but mine is looking pretty ratty.”

“I lost mine a week ago, actually.”

Lance laughs. “Dude, what? What’d you do?”

“No idea. It was just missing from the showers one day. I think Hunk might have stolen it to mop up his oil spills.”

“Have you just been air-drying yourself then?”

“Well. Yeah. I mean yesterday wasn’t so bad; it was hot enough to speed the process up.”

Lance shakes his head fondly and slings his arm over Keith’s shoulder to direct him at the towels rack. He hooks his chin over Keith’s shoulder. “You got a colour you want?”

“Mm. Blue,” Keith says decisively.

Lance raises a brow. Keith turns his head, hair brushing Lance’s cheek, and smiles.

“Guess I’ll take red then. Though if Hunk steals it from me thinking it’s yours, I’m blaming you.”

Keith throws their towels into a basket with five other random-coloured ones. They go wobbling off in search of sheets, with Lance still hanging off him. “If that happens, we can just share.”

Lance scrunches his face. “Oh, god no, that’s gross.”

“I’m offering my belongings to you and that’s how you show your appreciation?”

“You’re offering me your germs, is what you’re doing.”

The selection of bedsheets, blankets and throws takes up an entire section of the store. Aliens have so much variety. There’s a lot of skin types and strange biology, which leads to sand and bark sheets for molting, and special display cases mounted on the walls for aquatic-type bedding, which Lance can’t even begin to wrap his mind around.

They bypass all of it for the more ordinary stuff in the back. There are some grassy duvets for the Olkari, but beside it are some plain sheets in cream, grey, and fuchsia, weirdly enough.

Keith squints at the labels. “Sooln thread or the brem-gwir mix?”

“The mix. Allura said the sooln stuff is overpriced.” Lance reaches around him to knock seven packages of bedding into the basket hanging off Keith’s elbow. His mind drifts to his own dirtied sheets, wondering if Allura means to have them thrown out or repurposed. He asks Keith about it as they head to the cashier.

“Repurposed,” Keith answers. “She made a dress out of Alfor’s old sheets.”

Lance cringes. “Don’t think mine are suitable for that.”

It’s Keith’s turn to snort. “What’d you do, rip them?”

Last night flashes through Lance’s mind like a lightning strike. He flushes, pulling away. “Haha, uh—just. Spilled a drink on it and, uh, stained it. C’mon, we’re next.”

Errands done, they wander aimlessly through the mall. Lance buys them tree sap cones at one point and Keith struggles to eat it without getting anything on his sweater. They stop and point at storefronts, snickering and pulling faces at the bewildering fashion trends, or the mind-boggling range of merchandise and services, from kitchenware to tactical gear to fur-grooming salons.

“You should book an appointment,” Lance jokes about the last one. “Once you grow in your Galra fur, you’re going to need it.”

“Or I could just get you to brush it out for me.”

“And why would I do that?”

Keith bumps his shoulder. “You said you have two cats at home that you do nothing but dote on. I’d be doing _you_ a favour.”

“Are you saying you’d let me pet you?” Lance asks, taken aback. Do Galra even like to be pet?

“Well, who else would I let do it?” Keith replies absently, gaze skipping along the store displays, like he didn’t just set a bomb off in Lance’s chest.

Casting about for a distraction from his embarrassment, Lance catches sight of a shoe store. “H-hey, why don’t we check that out? You need new kicks, man.”

“What’s wrong with what I have now?”

He looks at Keith, pitying. “Dude…”

“What? No, seriously, what’s wrong with them? Lance, get back here! I don’t need new shoes!”

* * *

They get Keith sneakers and pair of cheap, tacky flip flops, just because. Keith tells him that he’s going to be the one to explain that purchase to Allura. They lose track of time wandering the mall, ducking in and out of stores and generally making nuisances of themselves to the owners.

For once, Lance feels like his age. Like he’s just another twenty-year-old out with a friend, and not some undercover soldier on a supply run.

He can’t remember the last time he had this much fun.

It’s nice. It’s really nice.

But as always, the fun can’t go on forever. Shiro comms them a bit later, and it’s time for them to head back. Coran checks over all their purchases before leaving. When he nods, satisfied, Lance pulls his sleeve over his hand and fist-bumps Keith.

It’s only after they step back onto the ship that Lance remembers the reason why they went to mall in the first place.

“Did it get hotter?” Pidge wheezes.

Shiro turns to Hunk. “Please tell me this will be over soon.”

“I’m on it.” Hunk salutes them, heading down to the bowels of the ship with Coran in tow.

The rest of them disperse, tugging off jackets and shoes as they go. Lance grimaces at the feeling of sweat building at the backs of his knees. He needs these jeans off immediately.

In his room, the air is stale and stuffy. He changes into shorts and turns on the fan that Hunk cobbled together out of spare parts. It whirrs and wobbles on his nightstand. Warm air brushes uselessly over his body. He sighs.

He strips down his bed and fixes the new sheets onto the mattress. Even that little action has sweat is dripping down his neck. He takes the bedding down to the laundry room and throws them in the wash. He’ll have to remember to bring them back to his room once they’re done drying; he doesn’t want Allura to snatch them up for her DIY projects.

He’s standing before his dresser, wondering if he should bother with a shirt, when there’s a knock at his door.

“Come in!”

Keith steps through, holding snacks under an arm and a small ice box in the other. “Hey. Is it your turn with the console, or is it Pidge’s?”

Lance smirks. “Mine.”

Once the game is set up, they sit back against Lance’s bed. The ice box and snacks are placed between them. Lance shamelessly leans into the cold wafting from the box, popping open a can of fruity Altean pop and downing half before Keith even picks his character.

“You always go for that one,” Lance complains when Keith makes his selection.

“And _you_ can never settle on one,” Keith retorts. He holds out his hand. Lance rolls his eyes and passes him the drink, cycling through the characters as Keith takes a sip. He makes a face. “Seriously?”

“What? I like that flavour.”

“I don’t.”

Lance throws a slipper at him. “Get your own drink then, asshole. The cooler’s right there.”

Keith stubbornly takes another sip. “Pick another flavour next time.”

“Or, you could, I don’t know, _get your own drink.”_

“Are we going to play or are you just going to duck-duck-goose the characters until I fall asleep?”

“Oh, it's on. Pick up your controller, let’s go, bitch.”

“Gladly.”

The game proceeds normally at first but with them, it’s no surprise when it gets physical. Usually, they end up rising onto their knees, shoving and pushing, shouting and swearing. Once, Lance screeched directly into Keith’s ear and got tickled in retaliation. Playing dirty is half the fun.

But this time, when Keith’s character is about to die and he pinches Lance’s arm to distract him, it works a little _too_ well.

Pain zips up Lance’s bicep and he drops his controller. “Fuck, ow!”

“Shit, sorry,” Keith hisses, shaking out his hand. “I forgot.”

“It’s fine—dude, shit!”

Their characters have stalled on screen, but the lava inching up the screen hasn’t. Lance curses and scrambles to move his character up, throwing projectiles at Keith as he goes and dodging when Keith returns fire.

Two minutes later, they’re clutching at their arms, wincing through the repercussions of shoving each other. They brush it off, only to make the same mistake not even a moment later when Keith reaches for Lance’s drink and Lance instinctively kicks him for it.

“Seriously?” Lance gasps, as Keith rolls on the floor, clutching his leg. “Why is this so hard? You’d think we’d remember by now.”

He’s so busy futilely rubbing his foot that he almost misses Keith’s next words.

“Doubt it,” Keith mutters. “I can never stop wanting to touch you.”

And the silence—dear god, the _silence_ that falls on them after that—it’s like the slam of Red’s body against a ship. Deafening. Stunning. Lance is left dazed, half-convinced he imagined it. Only the startled flush on Keith’s ears reassures him of his sanity.

“What?” he croaks.

For a moment, Keith looks like he’s considering ignoring Lance or maybe even leaving. But then he sighs, shoulders slumping in defeat. “C’mon Lance, you have to know by now. I haven’t been subtle. Especially in the last two days.”

There’s a long moment where Lance struggles to catch up. Keith’s expression gets more and more pinched as the seconds tick by. They’ve abandoned the game; their characters get eaten by a weblum.

Well, if Keith’s can put his feelings out there, Lance isn’t going to lose.

“I…didn’t want to assume,” he admits slowly, heart gone rapid-fire against his chest. “I thought…I thought it was just me. That I was just seeing things that I wanted to see.”

As far as confessions go, theirs are vague and non-committal. Hesitant. _I’ll-say-it-if-you-say-it_ kind of thing. Sixteen-year-old Lance liked to shout his affections for everyone to hear. That Lance liked witty lines and suggestive smirks.

But he’s older now. He’s—shit, he’s in _love_ now.

And it’s scary. It’s taking small steps, checking beside you to see if the one you like is following along, because you can’t do this without them. It’s trying to say _I like you too_ without actually saying it.

And from the way Keith perks up, how his expression eases into something embarrassed and hopeful…

 _Ah. He gets it_ , Lance thinks.

“It’s been hell,” Keith begins, “keeping my hands off you.”

“Keith,” Lance says lowly.

He can see the words bear down on him like one of Zarkon’s warships. They’re there in the slant of Keith’s brows, in the movement of his throat as he swallows. He bridges the space between them, he leans in daringly, and Lance’s breath shortens from the knowledge that Keith is poised to strike.

He’s seen an opening, a weakness, and Lance is helpless to stop him.

“Do you even know how much I think of you?” Keith asks with a soft snort. “ _I_ didn’t. Up until yesterday, I didn’t know that my mind is constantly occupied with thoughts of you. Useless, background observations. You inhale, you blink, you meet my eyes, you touch my arm, and it’s all I can think about.”

“You—it never showed, before,” Lance says.

Keith searches his face, gaze dragging slow, heavy. “It never showed on _you_ either.”

And Lance knows what he’s saying. That neither of them had realized the extent of their own feelings, let alone each other’s, not until they got cursed. They had gotten closer so slowly, by inches, that it took a biological alarm system pointing out every time they showed affection to hammer it home for them.

Keith huffs a laugh. “I was never going to get used to the curse. If we were like this for the rest of our lives, I would always forget to hold back. I’ve had you by my side for so long. How can I keep away when I’ve gotten this greedy?”

Greedy, huh?

Lance knows greedy. He’s greedy every time he sees Keith’s narrow-eyed expression. He’s greedy when he wonders what it’d be like to have that gaze fixed on him.

It’s greed that makes him want to hoard that kind of focus, that makes him demand it be dedicated to him, to what he likes and what makes him _sob._ He’s greedy in mornings, when Keith comes out of his room, bare-chested and yawning. Greed lives in Lance’s throat, makes him hunger for Keith’s warmth, for his skin.

“I thought about it, you know?” Lance admits quietly. “Thought about you touching me. Touching me _more.”_

He _sees_ the moment his words hit Keith; violet eyes blowing wide, something wild slipping over him.

Keith squeezes his eyes closed, visibly pulling himself together. “Jesus, Lance,” he rasps.

He’s so—Lance can only describe him as _sweet._ With his brows furrowed, cheeks flushed pink, and hair falling into his face. Lance wants to cover him with his body and bury his face in Keith’s nape, press his teeth to it, _fuck._

“I really, really want to kiss you,” Lance whispers. Keith exhales like he was punched. Lance presses forward, because it’s his turn, because this, too, is another part to their sparring. “I want to put my mouth on you, any way that you’ll let me.”

He slowly pushes aside the snacks, the ice box, gaze trained on Keith’s lips, on his incisors that poke out when he bites them. “I want you to have your way with me. Want you under me and on top of me, want to know how you taste and it’s so stupid, Keith, it makes me so _stupid_ , thinking of you.”

Keith swallows.

Lance smiles. “You remember when we were in the pool?”

Keith nods jerkily.

“Remember how I went to bed early?”

“Yeah,” Keith whispers.

It’s a treat, every time Lance beats Keith in a fight. It’s a delicious rush, that moment right before he strikes, when he realizes he’s already won.

“I fingered myself until I came,” Lance says. “And it was your name I moaned.”

Keith _snaps_.

He pushes into Lance’s space, grabs his face and _kisses_ him.

Kisses him until he’s gasping. Until he’s whining, because it’s good, it’s so good, but it hurts, too. It’s dual sensation, it’s wet and warm and it _burns_ and it’s _everything he wanted_ and yet he’s shoving Keith away.

They tear apart shaking, mouths stinging.

Lance’s face feels stripped raw where Keith held him. Keith curls over his trembling hands, gaze boring into Lance, hungry and wild.

Someone shifts on their knees. Someone sways in, bites back an exhale. It’s intoxicating.

Lance wants it to end, wants it to collide and snap, this tension on a string. They can’t, they _can’t_ but god, he wishes they would.

He stares at Keith’s lips. Now that he’s got a taste, it’s over for him. Keith hadn’t tasted like anything in particular, just soda and wet and warmth. Lance’s head had spun anyway.

“Fuck this,” Keith says abruptly. He shoots to his feet and marches for the door. “Wait right here.”

If emotional whiplash was a thing, Lance would be having it. He scrambles onto his hands and knees, gaping, to watch Keith enter his room across the hall. “Dude?”

“Don’t move!”

Lance squints. Keith grabs something hanging off his wall—a memento from Layopi, if Lance remembers right, it’s a mass of pinned and styled ribbon made to resemble the laurel of wealth.

Keith, with a flash of silver, slices a long section off it.

Lance sighs.

Where was he even keeping that knife of his? In his shorts? More importantly, why the hell did he leave to do that when they were in the middle of something?

He gets his answer when Keith jogs back ( _eager,_ Lance’s mind snickers), drops to his knees before Lance and loosely ties the strip over his mouth.

Lance feels stupid as hell in nothing but shorts and a face veil. He gives Keith a dead-eyed look. “Dude, we have to discuss your kinks before trying them.”

Keith flushes. “That—I don’t have a kink for this, shut up. I just want see if it works over a barrier.”

Is it trust that keeps Lance in place when Keith leans in? The thoughts come one after another. _Oh, he’s going to kiss me again. Oh, that’ll hurt. No, I won’t move away._ He’ll trade the pain for even a second of a kiss.

Except when Keith’s lips land on his, there is none.

Lance is still, confused for moment, until Keith pulls back, exhales shakily, and pushes right in again, kissing him more insistently. Then it clicks.

A barrier. The ribbon is a thin enough barrier that the curse isn’t triggered.

The realization is like a lightning strike. Like a door opening, an exit, a burst of fresh air on his face.

Lance surges into the kiss, desperate. He fists his hands into Keith’s shirt, tilts his head and opens his mouth. He melts, inviting. Keith groans and pulls him closer by his shorts. They rise to their knees, hovering inches away, connected only by their mouths.

It’s a little odd, a lot wet, spit slicking the veil. Everything is sweaty and dirty and Lance loves it anyway. Loves how Keith sucks on his lip, how his tongue slides against Lance’s like he doesn’t even register the barrier. Or like he couldn’t care less. His eagerness makes Lance blush, pleased.

And then Keith rocks their hips together. Lance’s eyelashes flutter at the pleasure that burns through him. His cock twitches, feeling Keith hard and hot against him.

Keith wrenches them together again, harder, and it would be so good if their bare knees hadn’t touched.

“Shit, sorry, sorry,” Keith breathes. “Here, let’s try this. Sit down?”

“W-wait,” Lance mumbles, “maybe we should wait until it goes away.”

“Do you want to stop?”

Lance bites his lip. Nope, not at all. “It’s just—how would it even work? We’ll get shocked and that’s not exactly fun.”

“It’s fine, I’ve got an idea. Let’s keep going, okay? Just—just a little, yeah?” Keith coaxes. “We’ve got shorts on. C’mon, spread your legs.”

Lance really hates how fucking wet his cock gets from hearing Keith plead. He does as Keith asked, settling back against his bed and immediately feeling way too exposed. Chest heaving, lips slick and red under a stupid ribbon, erection tenting his shorts.

Keith still takes a moment to stare, though, and that makes the embarrassment worth it.

“One sec,” he mutters. “Stay.”

He stumbles to Lance’s dresser and rifles through it. A pair of sweats are pulled out, and Lance frowns, once again perplexed by Keith’s incomprehensible thought process.

Keith then yanks his shorts off. Lance gets a heartbeat to ogle the bulge beneath his underwear before he’s stepping into Lance’s pants.

“Dude, what—?”

“It’ll help,” Keith says adamantly.

Lance laughs. “I’ve never heard of putting on _more_ clothes to have sex.”

“I don’t see you coming up with any other solution.”

“I guess I like making you do all the work.”

Keith rolls his eyes. He shuffles into the space between Lance’s legs, nudging them over his hips until he’s snug up against Lance’s crotch.

Then he grabs onto the mattress on either side of Lance’s head and, locking eyes with Lance, gives one good, slow roll.

Lance’s head falls back.

“Shit,” Keith hisses, grinning. “Yeah, that’s good.”

“Again,” Lance begs. “Do that _again.”_

He braces himself with his palms to the floor as Keith grinds their clothed cocks together over and over. It’s so juvenile, so desperate. Keith, fully-clothed, humping a half-naked Lance into the floor, mouthing at his jaw through the spit-slick veil. Lance, lying there and taking it, noises falling from his open mouth.

Something this basic shouldn’t feel as mind-numbing as it does, but Lance can’t help whimpering, can’t stop pulling Keith in with his legs, grip tight as a vice. He’s going to come from this alone. From just rutting against each other, half-wild with lust; from the sight of Keith fucking Kogane, slamming his hips into Lance’s, overeager and filthy.

Lance grabs Keith’s ass through the sweats, fingers digging and spreading his cheeks, massaging them and driving Keith down, holding him down. Keith groans into his mouth, pushing back into his grip.

“God, this ass,” Lance pants. “Wanna fuck you.”

Keith nips at his lip. “Shit, Lance.”

“Wanna ride you, too.” He scrapes his nails down Keith’s shirt, wishing he could see the skin go red under his touch. “Wanna leave marks all over you.”

Keith’s head lolls forward and pants, open-mouthed, over Lance’s neck. His tongue darts out and licks the skin there, and something must’ve knocked loose in Lance’s head because the resulting zing of electricity makes him moan.

“M’ gonna come,” Lance whines. “Keith, _ah_ , m’ gonna—make me, make me come, Keith, please—”

Keith growls. Lance hears something tear. He rolls his head to the side to see that Keith’s sharpened nails have ripped through the bedsheets. Lance’s body flashes hot-cold.

“Do it,” Keith pants. “Want to see it, Lance, come _on.”_

Keith skims his teeth over Lance’s neck. It hurts and it’s so good and it’s—sharp? Lance glances down and groans because holy _shit_ , Keith’s _teeth—_ they’re—

He doesn’t get a chance to absorb the change before Keith sinks his fangs into the junction of Lance’s shoulder on the next thrust down.

Lance fucking—comes.

His body seizes in pleasure and pain, legs clamping around Keith’s waist. His toes curl, electric fire spreading through his body and he grinds down on him, chasing the feeling.

Keith moans into Lance’s flesh, drooling, cock pulsing against Lance’s as he falls apart too.

The afterglow is strong enough to drown out the curse for a couple seconds, but soon Lance is pushing Keith back with a wince. His neck throbs.

“Sorry,” Keith rasps, rubbing at his mouth.

Lance nudges him with the heel of his foot, smiling. “Don’t apologize for giving me the best orgasm to date.”

Keith laughs quietly. He stares down at the wet patches on their pants, contemplative. Grinds into it gently to hear Lance’s breath hitch. “Wish I could touch you.”

Lance gets him. This isn’t enough. After just two days of withholding themselves, he’s ready to burrow under Keith’s skin and make a home there. He wants to map out his body until there’s nothing left that he hasn’t touched, hasn’t tasted.

But they don’t have any idea when it’ll end. There’s no countdown, nothing to assure them that they’ll get their reprieve.

“If I could touch you…” Keith continues, blinking slow and heavy. “I’d want to open you up. Work my fingers into you.”

Lance shivers.

“But I can’t.” He catches Lance’s gaze, looking so hungry like he didn’t just get off. “So you’ll have to do it for me.”

“I— _what?”_

“You said you came on your fingers.” Keith tugs at Lance’s waistband. “I want you to show me.”

For a second, Lance wonders if he passed out earlier and this is just a wet dream. Keith wants to—watch? He wants Lance to open himself up, play with himself, while he sits there and watches him like Lance is his favourite porn clip?

“Um…okay,” Lance breathes. “Should we—?”

“On the bed,” Keith agrees.

Lance crawls onto the mattress and Keith scrambles up next to him, brows furrowed in the most adorably impatient way. Lance kind of hates it because he still manages to look incredibly hot at the same time.

Something about the tension in his frame, the wrinkling of the sheets under his fists. Like he’s barely holding back.

Lance bites his lip, shivering as he settles against his pillows. He hesitates. “How…”

“Spread your legs,” Keith mumbles. “Wanna get closer.”

Lance squeezes his eyes closed for a moment, overwhelmed and so, _so_ aroused. “You’re going to kill me.”

“As if you aren’t doing that to me right now,” Keith grumbles. He shuffles closer, tugging at Lance’s shorts impatiently. “Shit, I really, _really_ want to touch you.”

Lance leans forward as he tosses his boxers away, tantalizing close to Keith’s mouth. “Yeah? I don’t mind a little painplay if you that’s what you want.”

Keith glares at him. “Stop deflecting.” He pushes Lance back with the electric touch of his finger, gaze roving over him. “Stop trying to hide from me, not when I finally got you where I want you.”

It shouldn’t be such a surprise every time Keith sees through him. Lance can never hide anything from him. He looks away, flush riding high on his cheeks. His legs twitch, threatening to snap closed around Keith’s waist.

“God, you’re pretty,” Keith breathes.

“Oh my god, don’t,” Lance says, flushing.

“It’s insane how much I want to suck your dick right now,” Keith says seriously.

Lance bursts into laughter, dropping his face into his hands. “Dude!”

“What? Tell me you wouldn’t be all for it if we weren’t cursed.”

Lance peeks out from behind his fingers, grinning. “That’s not what I—god, you’re so—I just—I like you so damn much, you know that?”

Keith’s mouth snaps shut. His brows pull together, a blush staining his face. Yeah, that’s what he gets for calling Lance pretty.

“I like you, too,” he replies haltingly, like he isn’t used to the shape of the words. He frowns. “A lot. Like a stupid amount.”

“Why do you sound upset about that.”

“You made me fall in love with you,” Keith accuses. “Without me knowing. Like the sniper you are.”

“What—how could I even—” Lance sputters, throws his hands up. “Dude, I am literally sitting here buck-ass naked with my _dick_ out, and _this_ is what you want to focus on?”

Keith blinks. Looks down. “Oh. Right. Okay, yeah, keep going.”

“Keep—?” Lance slumps back against the headboard, hands over his face. “Unbelievable,” he mutters.

He exhales harshly. Lowers his hands. They hover uncertainly over his thighs. He blushes when he realizes there’s come smeared on them, glistening under the dim light.

What’s doubly embarrassing is that his dick is hard again, so soon, and even through that ridiculous conversation.

He chances an awkward glance up at Keith, only to find him already staring back, eyes hooded. He opens his mouth. Closes it.

“I don’t—um…”

“You look like you want me to tell you what to do,” Keith says lowly.

Lance flushes. “Well—I mean, it wouldn’t hurt,” he says, trying for sarcasm.

It backfires on him because Keith just nods and says, “Wrap your hand around yourself. Slow strokes first.”

Okay.

No, actually—all of Lance’s remaining brain cells promptly burst into flames and his cock twitches because apparently Keith knows he likes being ordered around—so it’s not really okay, but whatever. Fuck it. He mutely does as asked, refusing to think about it further.

Lance can’t say he’s ever got himself off with someone watching, but it’s a lot less awkward than he expected. Partly because he’s so turned on that he doesn’t really care, but mostly because of how desperate Keith looks.

His flushed face and slack jaw, pupils blown wide—the sight of him like that, so obviously into the simple act of Lance pleasuring himself, so much so that he doesn’t even seem to notice how his hips are starting to grind into the bed—seeing that, seeing the wet spot in his sweatpants grow—

It makes Lance feel desired.

He loses himself in it, just a bit. Head tipping back, exhaling slowly, deeply. Starts canting his hips into his fist, fucking it filthier, sloppier. Thumbs the head of his cock and feels his lashes flutter.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Keith whispers. “Show me how you like it, Lance.”

“Fuck,” Lance gasps, stroking faster, gripping harder. “Keith, _ah—”_

“God, love it when you say my name.”

Keith licks his lips, fingers twisting in the sheets. He watches with ravenous eyes, _devouring_ the sight of Lance with his legs spread and mouth slack, panting.

Does he like what he sees? Lance hopes he does. Hope he likes Lance’s helpless little noises, likes how his thighs twitch in pleasure, likes how desperately Lance is fucking into his fist.

Keith’s gaze bores into him; an answer in and of itself.

 _God,_ Lance wants to his touch so _bad._

“Lube,” he gasps. He needs to slow this down before he comes. “Nightstand—hurry, ngh—!”

A bottle is pushed into his hands. He clumsily uncaps it, pouring way too much lube onto his palm. Sliding down so his back hits the mattress, he flings his legs over Keith’s thighs again so his ass is basically in Keith’s lap.

Keith’s mouth parts, exhaling shakily as he watches Lance slick up his hole.

Lance smirks and plays with his rim a second longer that needed before sliding a finger in. Embarrassment has long left the room. All that’s left is brazenness, is unashamed lust.

“Lance,” Keith whispers, strained. His buries his fingers into the sheets on either side of Lance’s waist, hunching over him.

He looks like he’s going to die if he doesn’t get his hands on Lance in the next few minutes and it’s so. fucking. _hot_. He’s still thrusting into the air, so tantalizing close to Lance’s hand.

Lance pops in a second finger, scissoring them. Slowly, he starts rocking down onto one hand and back up into the other, fucking himself just how he likes on Keith’s lap—and Keith can’t do anything but sit there and take it.

“What else,” he pants. Keith meets his eyes, unfocused, dazed. “Should I add another?”

“No,” Keith rasps. “Go slower. Feel how wet you are for me.”

Lance bites his lip. Obediently, he lets his fingers drag along his walls, brushing up again his prostate agonizingly slow. Lube slips out between his fingers, trailing down his ass. Keith is _mean._

He only lets Lance shove in a third when he starts begging. It slips in too easily. Keith tells him to do four. Tells him not to come. Lance squeezes the base of his dick and sobs.

“Love you like this,” Keith whispers. His hair hangs around his sweaty face. He’s so hot and bothered just from the show Lance is putting on. Lance would feel proud if he wasn’t going insane from the pleasure. “Want to keep you in bed like this for the rest of my life, Lance, _god.”_

Lance whimpers.

Working on some odd instinct, he raises his trembling legs to his chest, bares himself to Keith as he spreads the fingers in his hole—showing off exactly how ready he is, how wet and open he’s become.

“For you,” he slurs, teary-eyed.

Keith sucks in a breath. His fangs pop out, his eyes go slitted. “Come,” he snarls, claws tearing into the sheets once again, “make yourself come _right now.”_

Lance sobs, curls his fingers into his prostate, fucks up into his fist and spills all over himself for the second time that night.

Come spurts over his knuckles and onto his stomach, pooling and dripping down his waist onto the bed. His toes curl. He melts into the bed, whimpering and shivering. His body burns from the inside out as his sweat cools on his skin. His ass clenches around his fingers.

Keith looms into his field of vision, panting. Lance stares up at him, bleary-eyed.

“Hold yourself open for me,” Keith rasps.

Lance glances down and almost passes out.

Keith’s shoved the waistband of the sweat down and has a hand wrapped around himself, jerking it so fast it’s a blur.

Head spinning, Lance dregs up some willpower to do as asked. Cool air brushes over his heated skin before Keith shuffles closer, movements desperate and uncoordinated. The sweatpants rub up against Lance’s bare ass and he has a rushed second to realize how fucking _perverted_ they look before Keith groans and comes all over his gaping hole.

Lance stops breathing.

Warmth splashes over his ass, the crease of his thighs—god, he swears some of Keith’s come actually makes it _inside_ him, holy _fuuuck._ Arousal flashes through him and his hips jerk of their own accord—

And grazes Keith’s cock.

 _Shit_ , he thinks and cringes, bracing for the pain.

A pain that…doesn’t come?

He peels his eyes open, relaxing minutely. Keith is staring down at them, a perplexed crease between his brows. He meets Lance’s gaze. A single thought exists in their heads right then.

Did the curse end?

Lance chews on his lip. Well, there’s only one way to find out.

He eases his fingers out. Grips the backs of his knees to pull them up, trailing come and lube all over. He holds his breath.

Keith exhales. He inches forward, watching Lance carefully. His cock nudges up against Lance’s hole.

They both freeze.

But after a second, after two, three four _fivesix_ seconds of nothing—it’s true.

It’s real. It actually happened. The curse is _gone._

Elation rips a grin onto Lance’s face, one that’s answered by the hooded look in Keith’s fever-bright eyes.

Without another word said, he presses in and slides all the way to the base.

Lance keens, head arching back.

“Fuck,” Keith grits out. “So wet, Lance. You sucked me right in.”

He blushes, feeling open and dirty and _full._ “Keith,” he whines. “Keith, _move.”_

Keith pulls out until the tip tugs at his rim teasingly, then fucks back in, moaning. He drops onto his elbows, shaking over Lance. His hips jerk into Lance’s like he can’t help it.

“Shit, Lance,” he pants.

Lance wraps his arms around Keith (he can do that now, he can _touch,_ can hold him—) and kisses him.

Kisses him properly, deeply. A slow type of thing that makes his heart pound as much as it calms his breathing. Makes Keith hum into his mouth and flatten a gentle hand to his side, thumb rubbing circles onto his skin.

Keith keeps kissing him, as he rocks in and out, steady, just feeling it out right now. Getting used to each other. He kisses down Lance’s neck, scraping his teeth (his _fangs)_ over sweat-slick skin and taut muscle. Down between his pecs, tongue flicking over his nipples.

Lance exhales shakily and threads his fingers in Keith’s hair, pressing into the touch, cradling Keith’s head to his chest.

He’s going to die. He’s seriously—he can’t believe they’re _here._ That they’re allowed to do this now. It’s so much and not enough and it’s _perfect._

Keith rises to his knees, panting. His face screws up as his eyes flick over Lance. “Jesus, look at you.”

He drags his palms up and down Lance’s thighs, kneading, squeezing. The touch feels so damn possessive.

Lance squeaks when he hooks Lance’s legs over his shoulders, grabbing his ass to hitch it up and fuck in, just that much deeper, oh _god._ He hiccups.

Keith moans, swearing. “God, you feel amazing.”

Lance whimpers, hands fisted in the sheets above his head as he’s rocked back and forth. The slap of Keith’s thighs on his ass fills the room. Faster and faster he goes. Harder, _deeper._

“Is it good?” Keith nips at his ear. “Do I feel good, baby?”

“Mm, Keith— _nngh!”_ Lance’s eyes roll back.

He feels drunk. Every time Keith moves, he shudders, delighted by the drag of him inside, the pressure and the heat, oh _god,_ the way Keith fills him.

“Hah— _ah_ , K-Keith!” Lance rolls his hips up and Keith’s cock hits his prostate. He sobs. “Shit, Keith, right there!”

Keith is moaning now, helpless, hitched breaths, like he loves it. Like he’s halfway to gone already, mindless and dazed from how good Lance must feel around him. Lance thinks he could get off on his sounds alone. Keith loves it, doesn’t he? Loves how tight Lance is, how hot and wet he is for Keith. Keith fucks into him like he’s a slave to the feeling.

Keith’s going to come all up inside him. Keith’s going to crave this for the rest of his life.

Lance smiles, blissed out.

“God, I wanna keep you,” Keith groans. He presses their lips together; less of a kiss and more of desperate connection. He holds Lance tighter, stomach rubbing against Lance’s cock and pulling gasps from him. “Let me keep you, Lance, fuck. I love you so much.”

It’s too much. Lance’s orgasm crashes over him in a drowning mix of arousal and emotion. He sobs, eyes stinging, because shit, he loves Keith too hell and back, too. Also, because his dick fucking hurts from coming three times.

“You drive me insane,” he croaks into Keith’s hair. “I love you too, you jerk. You better keep me; I wouldn’t let you go anyway.”

Keith swears. His rhythm grows crazed and he bites Lance wherever he can reach, sucking marks into his oversensitive skin. He winces a bit, and Lance remembers he’s also probably dying a little from oversensitivity.

“Keith, let go.” He cradles Keith’s face in his hands. “Baby, you need to let go _.”_

Keith shakes his head, open-mouthed, features tight with something Lance doesn’t have a name for. He ducks in, kisses Lance wet and sloppy. “Lance. Lance, _Lance—”_

“I’m here, I’m here.” He pushes Keith’s face to his neck, cradles him tight. “I’ve got you,” he breathes. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

On Keith’s next thrust, Lance clenches down.

Keith comes with a gasp.

He grinds in—an instinctive roll of his hips, digging into Lance so deep, so _good_ , like he’s making a space in there for himself—and shudders all over. Helpless little jerks that spark pleasure into Lance’s fucked out body, that drive his come further in, filling Lance so good, so hot.

“Fuck,” Lance moans. His spent cock twitches.

Keith pulls out and immediately collapses on him. He rolls them to the side with a breathless laugh, tucking Keith’s hair behind his ear.

Keith peels an eye open to look at him as he catches his breath. “Shit,” he mutters, mouth twitching up. “That was…”

Lance exhausted grin threatens to split his face. “I know. Wow, right?”

“That’s one word for it.” Keith huffs, shaking his head. He inches forward and kisses Lance sweetly, twining their fingers together and holding them against his chest. Lance feels his heart pound under his touch and thinks that he could probably grow used to hearing that in the morning when he wakes; in the night when he can’t sleep; and in the snatched moments of rest between blood and fire and fatigue.

He thinks he already has.

He brings their hands to his mouth, presses Keith’s knuckles to his lips. Keeps it there and hopes Keith understands.

They lie there, bathing in the afterglow long enough that Lance starts feeling drowsy. The come cooling on his stomach and sliding out his hole is going to be a bitch to clean later, but he might riot if Keith separates them right now. That, or cry. He’s feeling really fragile for some reason.

Keith heaves an irritated sigh, breaking the silence. “Goddammit.”

Lance blinks awake. “What’s wrong?”

The expression of utter contempt and revulsion only makes him laugh when Keith’s grudgingly says: “I think I need to send that priest a fruit basket.”

**Author's Note:**

> i could not go one sentence without cry-laughing while I was writing this, you guys. how can I read smut with a straight face but I can’t fckn write it. how. how does that work. how the FUCK do people write porn without constantly wheezing from the ridiculousness of it all. they amaze me. I want to stab myself with a broken piece of a tupperware container. I want to bellyflop into a pool of liquid concrete. christ on a stick
> 
> (my [tumblr](https://hiuythn.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/) if you wanna say hi!!! 💖💖💖)


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